


Remembrance

by LicieOIC



Series: Alternate Universe Doctor Who Prompted Fic [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-12
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2018-01-15 11:04:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1302547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LicieOIC/pseuds/LicieOIC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rose and John Smith attempt to pick up the pieces of their marriage, after Rose awakens from a coma with no memory of her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lunarsilverwolfstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lunarsilverwolfstar/gifts).



> Prompted by lunarsilverwolfstar.
> 
> Inspired somewhat by "While You Were Sleeping" and the Journal of Impossible Things from Doctor Who.

She woke up feeling groggy, layers of sleep pushing and pushing her down. It was several tries before she was able to really open her eyes. She blinked, looking at the unfamiliar bed and room she was in. Then she noticed the lead going from her arm to a bag of fluids hanging from a pole next to the bed. Then she realized there was a heart monitor on her index finger, the steady beeping in the room an echo of her internal muscle’s function.

“Where am I?” she said, or rather, tried to say. Her voice was scratchy from disuse.

A sharp intake of breath to her left drew her attention and she looked over to see a man with close-cropped dark hair sitting up in a chair, his blue eyes full of relief and amazement. “You’re awake!” he said, squeezing her hand and she realized then that he’d been holding it.

The joy in his expression crumbled at her next question. “Who are you?”

His left hand was shaking as he scrubbed it across his face in shock. The movement made the light catch on the gold ring on his finger. Automatically, her eyes dropped to the hand that he was holding. A matching set adorned her fourth finger.

“Oh, no.”

* * *

She stayed in the hospital nearly a month, recuperating from the car accident they said she’d had. The car had taken the worst of it, but the air bag hadn’t deployed, so she’d hit her head on the steering wheel. She’d been asleep for a week, the doctors hadn’t known if she was going to wake up. She didn’t remember what had happened. She didn’t remember much of anything. Generalized dissociative amnesia, the doctors said. She retained her attention span, language function, visual-spatial and social skills, but didn’t remember who she was or any of the people in her life.

The most prominent being the man who was apparently her husband. Dr. John Smith, a physics professor. He was there at her side from five in the evening until the nurses had him go home at nine. He would hug her then, holding her like she was the most precious thing in the world to him, even as she stood stiffly in his embrace. He’d brought pictures and photo albums, but it was like seeing another person. How could she recognize the events in the pictures if she didn’t even recognize her own features? Her mother came by several times, but then stopped, saying she was sorry, but it was too painful. She promised to visit on the weekends. And even though she suspected John was hurting too, he kept coming back every day.

The day before she was to be released, he showed up later than usual, and when he did, he was quiet. Not that he was much of a talker, but he’d done his best to keep the silence filled with stories of the life she was trying to recall.

Finally, he managed to say what was on his mind, “I’ve spoken with your mother,” he said, slowly, his eyes on the floor. “She says she can have the guest room made up... if you want to go home with her tomorrow.” He glanced up at her. “Instead of with me.”

She watched him carefully. After a month of getting to know this man, she was starting to pick up on his little signals. The squared set of his shoulders, his hands clasped tightly as he leaned forward in the chair, his elbows on his thighs. The tightness around his mouth. He was nervous, but resigned, already set up to be disappointed.

Looking down at her side, she picked a slim journal out from between the mattress and the side of the bed. One of the nurses had given it to her, thinking it would help with her therapy. She held it out to him.

He turned the pages slowly. A lot of it was stream of consciousness, but what stood out on each page were the sketches. She’d drawn him, over and over... Happy, smiling, thoughtful, sad, smug, laughing, sleeping... Mostly just his face, sometimes his whole body, long, lean lines, always in his battered leather jacket. In the margins were sketches of his hands. Holding a pencil or pen, a mug of tea, a banana, pointing at something, or holding one of hers.

He looked up into her honey-gold eyes. She swallowed hard. “I don’t remember who you are to me, what we are to each other, but... I think I love you. So, please... Don’t give up on me.”

This time, when he hugged her, she melted into his arms, turning her face into his collar. She wasn’t sure, she never was, but something felt... right.

* * *

Rose spent a long time looking around their flat, touching things and putting them back in exactly the same spot. She ran her fingers over the titles of the books in the bookshelf and looked intently at all their framed pictures. John stood near the entrance to the hall, nervously shifting from foot to foot. She thought he probably wanted to ask if she remembered any of it, but didn’t want to push.

“It... feels like I should know these things,” she said, honestly. “But...” She scratched her head, frowning. “I’m not sure.”

“It’s okay,” he said, but he didn’t quite meet her eyes. “They said anything could trigger it. We just have to wait. Feel like dinner?”

The ordered chinese. He told her not to get the sweet and sour pork. She did anyway, and regretted it. They laughed about it as she tossed it in the bin, and something lightened in the area around her heart. They watched the news until she started yawning and then he offered to sleep out on the sofa. She didn’t even hesitate, she just took his hand and headed for the hallway where, she assumed, she’d find their bedroom.

He showed her where to find her jimjams and she picked out some soft cotton shorts and a vest top. Without even asking, he took his own pajamas into the ensuite to change and brush his teeth so she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable. Blushing and grateful he wasn’t there to see it, she changed her clothes.

She felt a little silly... Intellectually, she knew he was her husband, but it still felt awkward, since she couldn’t remember any of their life together. It was almost like the first time spending the night at a bloke’s house... Her blush returned in time for John to open the door to the loo. She hurried past him and busied herself with brushing her teeth and hair.

When she felt in control of her blushes, she went back into the bedroom in her jimjams. He was sitting up in bed, reading a book by the light on his nightstand. She swallowed. She didn’t feel nervous, well, no, she did, but not because she was afraid. She knew he wouldn’t take advantage of her. This was an entirely different set of nerves.

Tentatively, she stretched out under the covers on the other side of the bed. Something about it felt right... Like muscle-memory. She wondered how many times she’d climbed into this side of the bed before the accident.

She turned onto her side, facing away from him. A moment later, she heard the pages of his book fluttering and then the light switched off, leaving them in relative darkness. The bed shifted under his weight and her heart thudded hard in her chest.

He moved right behind her, his hand finding the dip of her waist. “Rose?” he said, his rough Northern voice soft, too soft for a man of his size and strength. “This all right?”

“Yeah,” she said. Trying not to be obvious about it, she relaxed into him, fitting her back to his front. His arm came around her then, lacing the fingers of his hand through hers. It felt warm, pleasantly so. She felt... protected. His lips gently touched the crown of her head. Cherished. _Loved_.

She fell asleep in no time.

* * *

She woke the next morning facing the other way. She must have shifted some time during the night. There was light wanting to poke through her eyelids and she kept them shut tight, putting off being fully awake for a few more minutes. She breathed in, deeply. The subtle scent of pine and worn leather and her favorite tea drifted up to her. Warm arms tightened slightly around her waist, bringing her closer to a slim, lithely muscled body.

“Mmm.” She smiled. “Mornin’ Doctor.”

A soft sigh. “Morning, Rose,” he said, his voice still thick with sleep. Then he gasped.

She blinked her eyes open, afraid something had happened. “What?”

“You called me ‘Doctor.’” He was sitting up on one elbow, his other hand still at her waist, and looking at her in shock. And hope.

“I did.” She laughed, then covered her mouth as though she couldn’t quite believe it. “I did! That’s what I call you, what I’ve _always_ called you! You’re _my_ Doctor! And... and... I remember what my favorite tea is!”

He laughed, wrapping her in his arms as he rolled back on the bed, carrying her with him, the sound of their joy echoing off the walls. Tears fell from their eyes as he kissed her forehead and called her brilliant. It was a start.


End file.
